


Precipitation

by greymantledlady



Series: Merlin/Arthur Fics [6]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arthur Finds Out, Banter, Canon Era, Cuddling & Snuggling, Declarations Of Love, Denial of Feelings, Desperation, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Food, Getting Together, Hand Feeding, Heavy Angst, Hurt Merlin, Hurt/Comfort, Internal Conflict, Kissing, Light Dom/sub, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Magic Revealed, Mutual Pining, Poor Merlin, Protective Arthur, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-06-10 10:39:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6953299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greymantledlady/pseuds/greymantledlady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin’s broken his arm, and Arthur feels sick and worried and cold in the pit of his stomach, because it’s all his fault.</p>
<p>(In which Arthur is conflicted about his feelings, Merlin is wistful, and they dance around each other a lot. Oh, and Gaius is really starting to get tired of watching all the pigtail-pulling.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Arthur doesn’t know what it is about Merlin.

Except that he’s irritating and odd and not-at-all adorable, and Arthur wants him to be around all the time without quite knowing _why_ he wants it. And sometimes he has a bizarre compulsion to sit Merlin down in his own big chair, and wrap him up in a soft lambskin and bring him gifts, heap them on him, like roast chicken and sweet apples and fluffy kittens and _flowers_ , of all things. Things that would make a gentle, soft, irritating person like Merlin happy, make his smile come out like sunbeams after rain.

He doesn’t know what Merlin does to make Arthur feel like that. It’s all very strange, and sort of – nerve-wracking, and confusing, and Arthur doesn’t quite know how to handle it.

Usually, with strange, confusing, out-of-the-ordinary things, you can use spears and arrows and weapons against them, but he can hardly run at Merlin and his sweet smile with a sword. So instead Arthur finds himself making life difficult for Merlin in small ways; he tells Merlin to redo jobs he’s just finished, tips water on his head, shouts at him for stupid things. He doesn’t know what makes him do it, but it’s a sort of unpleasant, panicky compulsion, as though he’s taking revenge on Merlin for _being Merlin_ and making Arthur always want to be near him.

And Merlin just takes it all with a wry grin, or an exasperated huff, or a cheeky comment – but no matter whether he’s tired or annoyed or resigned, there’s always that indecipherable _look_ in his eyes.

Arthur hates that look. It makes something twist uncomfortably in his chest, and he ends up bullying Merlin even more, though he doesn’t know if it makes him feel better or worse.

* * *

It’s one of those days, and Arthur’s just come in from training, ranting at Merlin about how useless he is all the way back to his chambers for no real reason than to let off steam. He strips off his armour, and Merlin’s more than usually clumsy with helping unbuckle the straps, so Arthur snaps at him and shoves the whole pile into his arms when it’s finally off.

Merlin flinches violently, and makes a sort of hissing sound. And then the whole pile is toppling out of his arms and clattering hideously onto the floor.

‘ _Merlin!_ ’ Arthur explodes – and then stops, because Merlin has dropped to his knee on the floor, his face turned away and his arms cradled oddly to his chest; and his shoulders are shaking a little. And the thing in Arthur’s chest twists sharply, and he hears himself saying in quite a different voice, ‘Merlin? Merlin!’

He drops down next to Merlin just as Merlin tries to get up and scoot away, and Arthur wraps his hand around his thin shoulder to keep him there. Merlin shrinks back involuntarily, in a very un-Merlinish way, and when Arthur looks at his face there are pain-lines carved around his mouth and eyes.

‘You’re hurt!’ Arthur says stupidly, and pushes the scattered bits of armour out of the way so he can get closer to see. It’s Merlin’s left arm, that much is obvious from the way he’s holding it against himself, protecting it with the other. And Merlin’s bottom lip is clenched in his teeth so hard that it’s going white.

Arthur reaches for him, but Merlin pulls back and says, sharply, 'Don't touch it!'

'I just want to help,' Arthur says, hurt.

‘Haven’t you done enough?’ Merlin mutters, but not soft enough, and Arthur hears it. His chest twists again. It must show on his face, because Merlin glances up and says wearily, ‘Look, Arthur, m’sorry, all right? Just – hurts.’ And he looks so small and downcast that Arthur finds himself moving involuntarily to touch him, to comfort him. He realises just in time, and pulls his hands back, clearing his throat.

‘We should get you to Gaius,’ he says gruffly. ‘Come on.’ And he stands up and turns a little away as he waits for Merlin. Merlin clumsily kicks the scattered armour as he gets to his feet, and makes a little sharp worried sound as he does so, glancing at Arthur as though he expects to be snapped at.

Arthur looks away, tight-lipped, suddenly, inexplicably angry; not with Merlin, who is expecting his anger, but with – with everything else in the world except Merlin. Or is it Merlin he’s angry with? Merlin Merlin Merlin Merlin. It’s all he ever seems to think about, damn it all.

‘Come on,’ he says again, curt; and Merlin droops his head down and follows.

It’s very silent on the way to Gaius’s chambers. Merlin isn’t talking, just walking along looking white and wilted. Arthur keeps stealing little glances at him, to make sure he’s not going to collapse or anything, because that’s just the sort of thing Merlin _would_ do, the big girl. It’s a good thing Arthur’s there, just in case. If he hadn’t noticed Merlin probably would have gone around all day and half-killed himself.

‘Next time, _tell me_ ,’ Arthur says abruptly into the sound of their footsteps, and he doesn’t look at Merlin. But he feels Merlin turn his head, and it seems like Merlin is watching him for a long time as they walk, and Arthur’s ears feel hot. ‘Watch where you’re going,’ he says. ‘You’ll fall over and make an utter fool of yourself.’

He glances at Merlin, just for a tiny second, because he can’t help it, and there’s the strangest look on Merlin’s face, a soft look. It makes something swoop and flip dangerously in Arthur’s stomach, and he swallows nervously.

Then they’re at Gaius’s chambers, and Arthur opens the door and goes through, Merlin trailing behind him.

Gaius looks up with his eyebrows cocked, and Arthur says without preamble, ‘Merlin’s hurt his arm.’ He pulls out a bench and steers Merlin onto it, his hand curling over Merlin’s shoulder before he quite realises it; but Merlin doesn’t recoil this time, just goes still and meekly lets himself be seated.

Gaius bends over Merlin and takes the arm in his hands. Merlin flinches, and Arthur realises that his hand is still curled lightly around Merlin’s scrawny shoulder, because he can feel little shivers going through him. He tightens his hand, and says, ‘Be careful, Gaius,’ which is of course quite unnecessary. Gaius doesn’t deign to answer.

There’s a few minutes of silence, in which Merlin shivers and shivers, and bites off little gasps of pain under Gaius’s searching fingers, and Arthur holds his shoulder tightly and tries to stop feeling so sick and worried and cold in his stomach. After a moment’s hesitation he grips Merlin’s other shoulder as well, steadying him and rubbing his thumbs soothingly over the bony little protrusions on Merlin’s back. He’s never noticed before quite how _thin_ Merlin is.

‘It’s fractured,’ Gaius says, sternly. ‘What were you thinking, Merlin, to not come to me immediately? Not too bad a break, but you’re lucky it’s still aligned. I suppose you thought it would just go away of its own accord, did you?’

Merlin turns his face away. ‘Something – something like that,’ he says, and Arthur shifts uncomfortably, because he _should have noticed_ , and instead he’d shoved that armour at Merlin and hurt him.

‘How did it happen?’ Gaius asks. Arthur, standing behind Merlin with his hands on his shoulders, has only a back view of soft dark curls and a pale strip of skin at his neck, but he can tell by the little jerking movement that Merlin swallows. The bony shoulders hunch a little beneath Arthur’s hands, and without thinking Arthur starts moving his thumbs over them again, making calming little circles.

Then Merlin says softly, ‘It just happened in training, that’s all,’ and the bottom drops out of Arthur’s stomach. Merlin had been training with the knights, today, acting as a sparring partner – or sparring block – and sometimes as a moving target. And Arthur hadn’t thought he’d hurt Merlin, but he also hadn’t exactly checked very carefully, because if one paid too much attention to Merlin when he was adorably tousled and panting and sweat-streaked, one found themselves wanting to touch him, and put their arm around him, and pull him close into their side. So Arthur had kept his distance, and now Merlin was hurt.

‘Was it – was it me, Merlin?’ he asks after a moment.

‘You didn’t mean to!’ Merlin says loudly, and then starts trying to turn around to see Arthur’s face, the idiot. He jostles his arm in the trying, before Arthur can stop him, and cringes and cradles it again.

‘You _utter_ idiot!’ Arthur says hotly, coming round to the side so that he can shake an accusing finger in Merlin’s face. ‘Did you – did you think I – what were you _thinking?_ As though I would expect you to go on with a broken arm! You’re so _stupid!_ ’

‘Well at least I’m not a – not a royal dollophead who thinks he can walk around all day insulting people!’ Merlin flashes back. His eyes are a little red-rimmed, and he sniffs angrily and clumsily tries to wipe his face on his good arm, glaring at Arthur.

Gaius clears his throat loudly. ‘I am going to go and find some splints for that arm,’ he says sternly. ‘I will be back in ten minutes.’ He doesn’t say _after you have finished fighting,_ but it is heavily suggested by the eyebrow he gives them.

After the door closes behind him, Merlin takes a long, rather shaky breath, and then says in a quiet voice, ‘I’m sorry.’ He’s hunched over himself, still cradling the arm, and something about him makes Arthur’s heart hurt.

‘No,’ Arthur says, a bit too loudly, and paces a bit, two steps and back again. ‘You shouldn’t - _I’m_ sorry. I – I shouldn’t have shouted. I should have checked to see you were all right.’

Merlin’s head comes up at that, his dark blue eyes finding Arthur’s face and searching it for a moment. He sniffs again, and Arthur notices guiltily that his lashes are a little bit damp.

But then Merlin grins, and it’s like sunshine after rain again, even in his white face. ‘And you shouldn’t have insulted me all those times? It wasn’t very nice.’

Arthur grins back, warmth blossoming in his chest. ‘Don’t push it, Merlin,’ he warns, and sits down next to him on the bench. ‘I’ll help you get that shirt off so Gaius can splint your arm.’

It’s an awkward process, trying to manoeuvre the shirt off over the arm without jostling it. Merlin flinches and shudders a few times, pressing his lips tightly together and hunching his shoulders. But Arthur holds him steady when that happens, and manages to guide the shirt gently over his head.

Merlin’s arm is swollen and bruised, an ugly purple stain spreading across more than two hand-spaces of his pale skin. Arthur huffs out a little breath, a warm protectiveness gathering inside him, and dares to sling his arm gently around Merlin, his fingers wrapping around his opposite shoulder. Merlin’s skin is warm and soft, so soft. Arthur strokes his thumb over it a little, and he feels Merlin tremble against him.

There’s an odd feeling inside Arthur’s stomach, like a hundred pigeons taking off and fluttering away, and all the breath seems to have left his lungs. He looks down at Merlin, and Merlin’s eyes are glazed and his lips are parted; and Arthur watches rather dazedly as Merlin’s pale throat moves as he swallows…

And the door clatters, and they both jump violently; and by the time Gaius has come over with an armful of bandages, Arthur is clearing his throat loudly and standing well out of arms’ reach. Merlin looks rather dazed, and Gaius tuts when he sees him. Arthur turns away, because he feels inexplicably dizzy, somehow, and for some reason his heart is pounding high in his throat, and he can’t shake the picture of Merlin’s long pale swallowing neck.

Arthur needs to get out. Away. Now.

Before he does anything stupid, like – like. Well. Before he does anything stupid.

‘I – must go to see to my, uh, chambers,’ he says in a rather strangled voice, clenching and flexing his fingers by his side. Gaius is raising a sceptical eyebrow, but Arthur doesn’t wait to see it, just turns and strides away before he can change his mind. His feet feel oddly heavy, dragging, like metal being heaved away from a lodestone.

At the door, he turns his head involuntarily to look back at the bench, and Merlin’s watching him with a white wistful face that makes something tug inside Arthur’s chest. He hesitates, and then raises a stiff hand in farewell.

Merlin gives him a sweet, slight, hopeful half-smile, and Arthur gulps and flees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this, please consider leaving kudos or a comment - I'd love to hear what you thought!


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur gives himself the strongest talking to he’s ever had in his life, and resolves that in the future Merlin will just be like any other manservant to him, no more and no less. And Arthur will do just as he wants, and practice sword-fighting as he wants, and not think at all about idiot manservants who can’t even look after themselves and their stupid soft arms. In future, they will have a professional relationship. Arthur purposefully sits down to enjoy a delicious lunch full of not-thinking-about-Merlin.

Then he stands up restlessly, takes an indecisive half-turn about the room, and goes to the door, calls a servant, and orders for a big platter of roasted chicken and new bread and good cheese to be taken to Gaius’s chambers. And grapes and plums and apples on the side, and Arthur’s favourite raspberry jam.

He stops the list in horror when the thought of _flowers_ crosses his mind, and sends the kitchenmaid off to do his bidding, nailing the last hole in his self-crafted coffin by sending the Prince’s compliments with the food.

Arthur watches blankly as the girl scurries away, then slams his door so hard that the sound reverberates around the chamber. And then he punches a wall, with considerable force; and then flumps face-down on his bed to wallow in self-recrimination.

* * *

Afternoon is just turning to evening when there’s a soft sound at Arthur’s door, and he looks up to see Merlin’s face peeping around it. Arthur jumps up, then thinks better of it and sits down again, trying not to look too eager.

Merlin is still looking rather peaky, but his arm is wrapped up in a big white bandage and sling that makes it look faintly comical, and he’s smiling at Arthur so that Arthur can’t help but smile back.

After several moments, Arthur becomes faintly aware that Merlin and he have been smiling at each other for rather longer than some might consider normal, and he clears his throat. ‘Yes. Well,’ he says, ‘how is your arm?’

‘Yeah, it feels great,’ Merlin says vaguely. He’s still smiling, looking a bit dreamy around the edges. ‘I mean, not _great_ , of course, but fine. Better!’ He starts pottering around, fixing things up around the room, even though Arthur had specially tried not to make a mess that afternoon.

Arthur leans against the edge of the table, the smile still lingering at his lips, watching Merlin straighten things on the bed. It’s funny how he does it one-handed, reaching across his body with the good arm.

‘Thanks for the chicken and everything,’ Merlin says, over his shoulder, as he positions a bolster. ‘It was really good!’

‘It was nothing,’ Arthur says, because it wasn’t, but he feels warm and pleased anyway. He wonders if Merlin had liked the jam; and then he wonders if Merlin had been able to _spread_ the jam, with only one hand. Maybe Gaius had done it for him. But then, maybe Merlin hadn’t wanted to ask Gaius to do anything extra for him, because Merlin was like that.

‘Did you manage to spread the jam?’ he asks, and feels foolish for asking.

But it seems like Merlin doesn’t think so, because he turns around with trusting happy eyes and says, chattily, ‘Well, no, it just seemed like too much bother. But I had the chicken and grapes and cheese, they were the best I’d ever tasted, or at least, that’s what it seemed like, but it might just have been that I didn’t have any breakfast. That’s what Gaius…’

‘Merlin,’ Arthur says, ‘have I ever told you that you talk far too much?’

‘Every day, sire,’ Merlin says, and his face _glows_.

‘You really need to try that jam,’ Arthur says recklessly. ‘In fact – ’ He spins round and yes, the remains of his lunch is still lying on the table; he’d eaten late, and growled at the girl who’d come to fetch the tray (because he was allowed to take his own time eating his lunch, thank you.) There’s a little dish of jam, and one small roll of bread left.

‘What –?’ Merlin starts to say as Arthur advances on him. He squeaks as Arthur takes his shoulder and steers him into a chair. ‘What have I done?’

‘Nothing, you idiot,’ Arthur says, feeling triumphant and rather euphoric. It’s something about the meek way Merlin lets himself be handled into the seat – into Arthur’s chair, as a matter of fact. Arthur points a commanding finger at Merlin’s lips, and says, ‘Stay. Quiet.’

Merlin takes a breath that trembles a little, and licks his lips, and sits still and quiet, submissive. He watches as Arthur breaks the roll open with his fingers. He watches as Arthur dips the knife into the jam and spreads it, thick and sweet, over the bread. His eyes are very dark blue, very wide, when Arthur looks up again, as though Merlin’s not sure what happens next.

Arthur smiles. His heart is thudding, for some reason, like a war-drum. ‘Open,’ he says huskily, and Merlin swallows in his throat and opens his mouth obediently.

‘Wider,’ Arthur says, and comes and sits on the table right where Merlin is. He reaches forward and curls his fingers round the back of Merlin’s head, and it feels like little shocks are running up his arm from the soft dark curls. Merlin’s eyes are huge, and his mouth is still open, just as Arthur had told him; and Arthur steadies and positions Merlin’s head just as he wants it, bracing it with his hand.

When Arthur brings the bread and jam to Merlin’s mouth, Merlin is shaking. ‘Bite,’ Arthur says gently, and Merlin closes his eyes and bites down cleanly around a big mouthful.

‘Mmm,’ he mumbles, and goes suddenly limp and boneless against Arthur’s hand and Arthur’s chair. Arthur’s hand moves of its own accord, sliding down to clasp the nape of Merlin’s neck; he finds that he’s breathing hard, as though he’s been running.

‘Good?’ he asks, and Merlin nods and chews and swallows slowly, his eyes still closed. Arthur can feel his pulse at his neck, and it’s as fast and wild as Arthur’s own. Then Merlin opens his eyes, and looks up at Arthur, and it’s as though the air between them is alive, sparking.

Arthur feeds Merlin the rest of the bread and jam, bite by bite, until it’s all gone and there’s a little smear of jam at the corner of Merlin’s mouth. And Arthur looks at the smear, and looks, and _looks_ , and, God help him, he’s leaning forward, because suddenly there’s only one thought in his brain, and that is to _lick the jam off Merlin’s mouth with his own tongue_.

No!

_NO._

Arthur’s inner voice sounds like his father; one can’t ignore it, whatever else one is thinking. It cuts through the haze of Merlin’s lips and smears of jam and Arthur’s own stupidity, and Arthur jerks his head back as though something’s stung him.

He wants to order Merlin roughly out of his chambers, because Merlin is damned dangerous and for some reason makes Arthur go to pieces and do unexplainable, unmentionable things.

But. But. He’s put Merlin through a lot, today, and he suddenly remembers the way his heart had leapt and lodged in his throat when Merlin had dropped to the floor cradling his arm. And Merlin’s trusting eyes, just now when he had come back to Arthur’s chambers.

So Arthur just straightens himself up and turns and walks a few steps away, and says in a rather crackly voice, ‘There’s jam on your mouth.’ And Merlin jolts a little, and reaches a shaking hand to his mouth, and then starts licking his lips and his finger clean. Arthur looks resolutely in the other direction, striding over to the window and clenching his fists over the ledge.

He watches a cart go by in the courtyard, unseeing, listening to the terrible little sounds of Merlin sucking his finger and licking the jam from his mouth. Merlin, shifting in the seat that Arthur had put him in – Merlin taking a deep uneven breath and standing up, moving from foot to foot, awkward.

‘Clear away those trays, would you,’ Arthur says distantly, to the window, because it’s the quickest way to get Merlin out of Arthur’s chambers before Arthur loses his head.

‘Yes, sire,’ Merlin says, a little unsteadily, and after a moment Arthur hears the soft clatters of plates being stacked.

‘You should take the rest of the evening off,’ he says, before he can give in to temptation and change his mind. ‘Just – go and sleep, or whatever it is you do.’

‘What?!’ says Merlin, sounding stunned. ‘You’re giving me the evening off? Really? – oh, you’re joking, aren’t you.’

Arthur doesn’t like the way Merlin’s voice falls at the end. He says crossly, over his shoulder, ‘ _No,_ I’m not, you idiot. Go on, before I change my mind.’

He’s sticking faithfully by the window, but he catches a glimpse of Merlin’s wide grin, over his shoulder. ‘ _Thank you_ , sire,’ Merlin says, sounding wretchedly happy to be having an evening without Arthur, and he clatters the rest of the plates merrily together as Arthur looks gloomily out at the cold dusky courtyard.

Arthur can’t help listening to Merlin’s footsteps carrying the plates to the door; and then there’s a beat of silence. And Merlin says softly, ‘And – thank you – for the jam. Arthur,’ and flees before Arthur can say anything.

The door shuts quietly behind him. Arthur waits two heartbeats of time, then groans deeply and leans forward to rest his head on the cool panes of glass in the window.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANGST. You have been warned.

Arthur wakes up the next morning as angry as a bear. He knows it, and he doesn’t even try, just growls and shouts at Merlin and throws a pitcher at his head. Merlin squeaks and ducks, and the flash of disappointment that crosses his face just raises Arthur’s ire.

He snarls and stomps around the room and finds fault with the first three outfits Merlin brings. Then Merlin’s fingers fumble and skim Arthur’s arm as he’s trying, one-handed, to help with his shirt, and it feels like his touch makes sparks fly across Arthur’s skin. He sucks in a harsh breath.

‘Damn it, you’re useless, Merlin,’ he says roughly, ignoring the way Merlin’s shoulders slump. ‘Just go – go and get my breakfast.’

Merlin goes quietly, his head bowed and his bandaged arm curled in close to his chest. But when he returns, at length, with a tray full of Arthur’s breakfast, he’s back to grinning and teasingly tongue-in-cheek, and he talks back at Arthur’s grumbles and tells him he _really_ needs his breakfast, right now. And Arthur glowers and thumps things on the table and does _not_ watch Merlin flitting about the room while he eats.

* * *

The next few weeks are the worst Arthur’s ever spent. Instead of just thinking about Merlin all the time, he’s thinking about Merlin, _and Merlin’s lips,_ and _Merlin’s skin,_ and good God, help him, because he thinks it’s driving him mad. He never wants to see that jam again.

He’s taken to treating Merlin with a cold politeness, because that seems to be the best way to keep himself from doing anything stupid. He doesn’t look at Merlin much, and he definitely doesn’t make Merlin do any more training with the knights, because he’s only human, after all. If the _thought_ of Merlin training – all hot and flushed and with sweaty hair sticking to his forehead – makes Arthur’s throat feel dry, he doesn’t want to risk seeing what the actual version will make him do. Not after the jam.

Merlin seems to have decided to just go on as he normally does, grinning cheerfully and teasing and talking back to Arthur. It makes things difficult for Arthur, because there’s nothing harder than waking up to the sight of Merlin’s sweetest smile, and then having to turn away and ignore that smile, and carry on ignoring it all day. It’s not Arthur’s fault that Merlin’s smile is so – so bright, and sunshiny, and soft, but he soldiers on bravely.

It also doesn’t help that sometimes he catches an accidental glimpse of raw hurt in Merlin’s eyes, when Arthur turns away from him and speaks to him with rigid formality, and tells him his services won’t be required this evening, thank you, Arthur can ready himself for bed on his own.

Damn Merlin, and his eyes, and his smile. _Damn_ him.

* * *

Merlin carries on walking around with his arm bound up and splinted. Arthur has begun to loathe that big white bandage.

Every time he sees Merlin trying awkwardly to do some simple task one-handed, a shard of guilt pierces Arthur’s belly. More than once, he’s had to catch himself, horrified, because he’s about to stride forward and take whatever it is out of Merlin’s hands and do it for him, take care of him; and that would be a recipe for disaster and ruin.

So when Merlin spills Arthur’s wine on the table, muttering a soft apology, Arthur just looks straight through him and waits for him to mop it up. And when Merlin carries in a big platter of apples, and one drops and bounces halfway across the room, Arthur ignores the way Merlin huffs with laughter and glances up to meet Arthur’s eyes, to share the moment.

Because if he meets Merlin’s eyes and shares his laughter, it will most certainly snap Arthur’s tight hold on himself. And then – then, God alone knows what Arthur might do, because it terrifies him to think about it.

Merlin glances at him again, still smiling – Arthur, hyper-aware, can see him in the corner of his vision. Merlin waits. Glances again, the smile fading, as Arthur looks disinterestedly over Merlin’s shoulder at an interesting pattern in the border of the tapestry behind him. Arthur can _feel_ him looking, can feel Merlin’s gaze as though it were a warm wind. It’s suddenly difficult to breathe, but he makes himself move, makes himself walk away from Merlin and his stupid apple and his stupid dear laughter and sticking-out ears and vulnerable eyes.

There’s a little indescribable sound of hurt, like pain given voice into the quietness of the chamber, and Arthur realises that it’s come from Merlin. And then Merlin’s stomping to the table, breathing hard, and he crashes the platter down onto its surface with a shattering smash that would be enough reason for any sane person to fire their servant. Arthur looks at him; finally, really, looks at him in the face.

Merlin’s face is bright with anger, his fists clenched at his sides, looking straight at Arthur; and Arthur is frozen like a startled rabbit, his mouth opening and closing helplessly and his brain screaming for him to get out, now, this instant, out of the window if he must – just away. There’s no breath left in his lungs.

‘Oh, so you – you can damn well l-look at me now!’ Merlin spits out. He’s stuttering a little, red and ridiculous, and Arthur can’t move. He has the bizarre panicked thought that Merlin might eat him up whole, because he looks angry enough.

And then Merlin’s face crumples and he cradles his arm in to his chest again, huddling his head into his shoulders, and he turns and makes for the door. ‘Got to go,’ he says in a choked voice, over his shoulder, and the door judders twice behind him, as though his hand is shaking as he tries to close it.

‘Wait,’ Arthur says, idiotically, to the empty room; and then he sinks down into a chair and buries his face in his hands.

* * *

Merlin says nothing about the incident, when he comes in the next morning, and neither does Arthur. Merlin doesn’t smile when he opens the curtains and wakes Arthur, and his face is blank, neutrally respectful. There is no sparkle in his eyes, and it makes Arthur feel sick and hurt and writhing inside his stomach.

He has Merlin help him into his armour; it’s like an awkward dance where they circle each other, not making eye contact, and Merlin’s fingers never once touch Arthur’s skin. Arthur thinks dully that he should be glad of that, at least.

He spends the day on the training field, and Merlin does not come outside to watch.

* * *

Arthur grows stern and quiet. There must be something about his face that scares people, because he is being avoided. People scurry around corners when he appears, and try not to meet his eyes. It makes him realise how much he has come to rely on Merlin for companionship - just ordinary, friendly, human interaction.

And he misses him – he misses him – he misses him. He misses him like a physical ache in his chest, and every day he has to see Merlin's shuttered face, closed and blank and his eyes like dark pools of hurt. And Merlin doesn't talk, except to say 'Yes, sire' and 'No, sire', which hurts more than his silence.

'Merlin,' Arthur says desperately, one day. Merlin is clearing away the plates from his dinner, his face turned away, and Arthur is painfully  _aware_ of him, of the soft quiet breaths Merlin is taking through his nose, of the tense beautiful line of his cheekbone and jaw, the tightness in his shoulders. And he can't help it, his tongue moves before he can stop it, and he blurts out Merlin's name.

Merlin startles. He's like a beautiful deer, Arthur thinks, like something gentle and delicate and fey; and Arthur makes a little longing movement, reaching for him, but stops with his hand hanging in the air. And Merlin's face is so open, so full of hope, at that moment; but something inside Arthur is screaming, No! - No!

And Arthur pushes his chair back clumsily and turns away with a little choking sound, and stumbles away to stand by the post of his bed, closing his eyes. He hears Merlin setting the stack of plates down on the table with a light click, his breathing going shaky, as though he's trying his hardest not to sob. There's a little pain-filled pause between them, and then Merlin's footsteps move unsteadily towards the door, and he goes away and leaves Arthur there.

Arthur rests his forehead on the smooth carved wood of the bedpost, fisting his fingers in the crimson of the draperies, hating himself. And then there are tears on his face, shameful hot tears sliding down and darkly blotching the red silk where they fall.

Merlin doesn't come back that day, or the next.


	4. Chapter 4

The first day Merlin doesn't come, Arthur feels dully relieved. The second, sick and miserable and empty. By the third, when he wakes up to the face of a manservant who's not Merlin, he's coldly angry.

Merlin is _Arthur's_ , Arthur's own, and he has no right to leave him. Arthur wonders furiously what Merlin is doing, with whom he's spending his time; and an odd fierce possessiveness curls tightly in his stomach. He clenches his fists, dismisses the terrified servant-who-is-not-Merlin with a harsh word – and paces.

He paces back and forth the length of his chamber, fighting himself. The part of him that cries  _No_  when Merlin is around is loathing, hard with disgust.

_Leave him_. It sounds like his father's voice.

But the part that is  _Arthur,_ the part that is Arthur's heart and soul and essence; that part is what makes him slam his fist down hard on the table, and stalk out of the room towards Gaius's chambers.

He doesn't knock, or anything like that, because he's the King's son, damn it, and he shouldn't  _have_  to knock, or ask, or come fetching his manservant because he doesn't show up for three days. Instead, he slams the door open, his palm flat and fierce against the rough wood.

And there, at last, is Merlin.

Merlin, leaning over Gaius's bench, frowning in concentration. The bandage and splint are gone at last, and there’s a matching pale strip of skin showing at each of Merlin’s wrists as he holds up a little jar for Gaius to drop in some sort of black liquid. When the two of them hear the door slam open their heads jerk up.

'Arthur,' Gaius says sternly. Arthur doesn't miss the way he moves forward a little, almost shielding Merlin with his body. But it's Merlin Arthur is there for, and Merlin's frozen, trembling, white-faced.

And then Arthur is halfway across the room with a couple of angry strides; and Merlin drops the bottle with a tiny splintering crash and bolts for the door of his little bedchamber.

Arthur’s right behind him. ‘Merlin!’ he roars, but Merlin’s slamming the door, thudding his body against it from the inside to hold it shut, making little frantic sobbing pants of breath.

‘Arthur,’ Gaius says.

Arthur’s fuming, breathing heavily, and it would be so easy to force his way into that room, to shove the door open despite Merlin’s pitiful weight on the other side. To drag Merlin out, cowering…

He can’t, though. Arthur knows that, dimly, in some vague part of his mind, buried deep underneath the anger. He clenches his fists in frustration, and pounds the door instead.

‘Arthur,’ Gaius says again. Arthur barely hears him. He pounds harder, his fists shaking.

‘ _Arthur_ ,’ Gaius says a third time, and his voice is sterner than Arthur has ever heard it. He turns to look at the old man, panting and half-defiant.

‘Stop,’ says Gaius, and his tone brooks no argument. ‘Arthur, _listen._ ’

And so Arthur listens – listens at Merlin’s door, to the little sounds from inside.

Little sounds. Little, damp, heartbroken sounds. They’re very, very soft, as though they’re being muffled by a hand or a sleeve; tiny helpless sniffles, quiet gulps of air.

Merlin’s crying. Really crying.

Merlin is crying, and it’s Arthur’s fault, and Arthur has the sudden wild primal urge to tear down the door and take Merlin in his arms and comfort him – hold him – never let him go.

He lurches away, his legs suddenly unsteady, as though he’s drunk too much mead. Gaius is standing there, his face forbidding; he motions to the bench on the other side of the room in an oddly commanding gesture.

Arthur sits. Sits, and props his elbows on the table and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, and waits.

‘Sire,’ Gaius says, and his voice is still stern and hard. ‘He has wept himself to sleep for the past three nights, and he refuses to tell me what is wrong, or to speak about _you._ ’ He waits, his eyebrows demanding an explanation, then adds, quieter, ‘It cannot have escaped your notice that Merlin means a great deal to me.’

‘Yes,’ Arthur creaks. ‘Yes – yes, I see that.’ He rubs his face tiredly, the image of Merlin huddled and small and sobbing himself to sleep rising up to accuse him. What he is supposed to say? _I’ve been ignoring him because I can’t control myself around him,_ maybe. Or, _I can’t stop thinking about him and it terrifies me._ Or perhaps, _I think I’m going mad, Gaius, help me._

He can’t say that to Gaius, can’t say any of that, and so he pushes back the bench roughly and stands. ‘I _don’t_ _know_ , all right?’ he says, and it comes out more desperate and pathetic than he had thought. ‘We had an – an argument, or something. I just don’t know!’ He’s striding for the door as he’s speaking, and Gaius doesn’t try to stop him.

Some visceral force makes Arthur glance back at Merlin’s door, quick and fierce, one more time, but it’s still tightly closed. He swings around to face Gaius before he leaves, and says in a tight voice, ‘Tell Merlin – tell him I’m sorry.’

Gaius looks at him from under his brows, and nods.

* * *

Arthur spends another day on the training field, and destroys a total of three dummies, five shields, the edge on his favourite sword, and the self-esteem of most of the other knights who had decided to practice with him.

It starts to rain. Arthur carries on training. It rains some more. It rains until the field is a slushy ravaged mess; and then Arthur slips and falls heavily in a particularly muddy patch.

It’s cold and wet and very, very muddy, and Arthur’s furious and humiliated and ready to kill anyone who might have found it amusing. But it turns out that everyone has wisely retired due to adverse conditions; namely, Prince Arthur’s wrath. Arthur snarls.

If Merlin were – were not-angry with him, he would still be sitting there in the rain, and he would tease Arthur about slipping in the mud and his words would have no sting. The realisation catches Arthur in the chest, and he takes a painful little half-breath and hacks his sword fiercely into the ground.

* * *

Arthur lies in bed. The room is dark, except for the dull glow of the banked fire; Arthur's sent all the servants-who-are-not-Merlin away, and doused his own bedside candle.

He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, hard, so that he can see bright dancing blots and sparks that aren't really there. He's aching all over from training so violently, and he's glad, because the aching is something he can focus on, so as to not think about other things.

Like the way Merlin had cried. Small and heartbroken and...

Or the way Merlin had startled and run away, and barricaded the door with his body, terrified.

Arthur tosses himself over, roughly, and shoves the covers off. He's just thinking about getting up and lighting the candles again, and going for a walk, or doing paperwork, or – or  _anything,_ anything to do that will stop him from thinking and thinking and thinking about Merlin. But then he hears a little noise in the darkness, and freezes, because there should  _not_ be a noise in his room. There’s the tiny click of the door shutting, and Arthur can just make out a dark formless shape.

The shape stops, just inside the door – hesitates – shuffles. Arthur reaches under the covers, very, very slowly, closing his fingers around the little ivory-handled knife that he keeps there for a last resort, that only he and Merlin ever know about. He waits, hardly breathing.

And then the unknown presence says, in a tiny tear-choked voice, 'Arthur?'

It feels like a bucket of icy water has been tossed over Arthur's head. 'Merlin,' he says, and his voice sounds strangled and strange to his own ears. 'Merlin, what – Merlin, what are you doing here?'

There's a little shifting sound in the dusk, as though Merlin is twisting his hands together or something. 'You said – sorry.'

'I could have killed you,' Arthur says, and squints into the darkness, grasping his own head with rough hands and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His heart is thudding unevenly in his chest and his mind feels fuzzed, sluggish, although his body is tensed and aware. ‘Merlin, I _could have killed you._ ’

Merlin makes a little indescribable sound, like an animal might make on the precipice of flight, and Arthur needs to see his face. He stumbles to the embers of the fire, lighting a taper with unsteady hands and touching it to the candelabra. Warm clear candlelight grows smoothly from the wicks and washes over them.

And there’s Merlin.

Merlin, not meeting his eyes, shielding his face with his hand, his lips parted, unsteady. And oh, dear God, help him, Merlin’s nightshirt, open-necked and half-slipping off one shoulder; and Merlin’s collarbones are sharp and lovely, and the little hollow between them is the softest, most enticing thing Arthur’s ever seen.

And Arthur’s miserable, and tired, and confused; and he’s hardly seen Merlin for three days, and he’s _missed_ him, missed him like a physical ache in his chest. Merlin’s so close, so very, very, dangerously close.

It happens so fast, like the moment after the release of a bowstring – Arthur’s lunging forward, and pulling Merlin towards him in a confused tangle of arms and breath and pounding heartbeats; and then his mouth is crashing down on Merlin’s.

It’s achingly soft, warm as summer, terrible as lightning. Merlin’s lips are moving unsteadily beneath his, and Merlin’s making little gasps into Arthur’s mouth; and Arthur kisses him and kisses him and kisses him as though life itself is captured between them.

He’s desperate and fraught and longing, and everything is Merlin, the wonderful revelation of him – Merlin’s soft skin and slight shoulders and the warmth of the dip of his back. Arthur’s hand is clasping his waist and holding Merlin’s slender body against his chest, because Merlin’s knees seem to have collapsed. Merlin’s hands are slipping and clutching at Arthur’s shoulders, holding on almost painfully tight, and Arthur has one hand in his dark curls, holding his head.

And Merlin’s crying – crying hot fast tears that spread all over his face and Arthur’s and seep into their mingled mouths, salty-sweet. He cries harder, and harder, until his sobs shake the kiss apart and they melt and collapse together on buckled knees to the ground.

Arthur is shuddering, panting, wonderful bright nonsense colours exploding in his head. But there’s a single clear thought in his head, more instinct than reason: Merlin is crying. Merlin is crying, and distressed, and must be comforted.

‘Shh,’ Arthur breathes, and holds Merlin tightly, and rocks him, babbling nonsense. ‘Merlin – Merlin. Don’t cry, please don’t cry, I can’t bear it. Merlin.’ He breathes his name like a prayer.

‘Just going to – don’t know – what will I – _Arthur,_ ’ Merlin chokes out, and Arthur swoops and kisses him madly, on his face, his nose, his neck; little kisses and soft bites and nuzzles against his temple, lunatic, insane. Merlin gasps and sniffle-sobs and makes little moaning noises, and arches into the touch of Arthur’s lips above him; and then Arthur’s crying too, billows of feeling rising up and dissolving into the relief of tears as he holds Merlin in his arms.

And perhaps it is the tears – perhaps it is the intoxicating _feel_ of Merlin nestled against him – but Arthur says desperately, stupidly, ‘Merlin – _Merlin!_ – I love you – I love you.’

The world does not crash into ruin, or kindle into flame; but the air leaves Arthur’s lungs, for he recognises in a shattering instant both his own words and the irrefutable truth of them.

‘Dear God,’ he says heavily. ‘Dear God. I _love_ you.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kept second-guessing myself on this one. But I finally decided to just be brave and post it. :)
> 
> I'd love to know what you thought; please drop a comment in the box! :)


	5. Chapter 5

Arthur feels old suddenly; old, and responsible, and as though a million worries are dragging down on his back. His mind is very clear, very heavy. It seems a long time ago that he had pounded on Merlin's door through a red haze of anger.

He wipes the dampness from his face – his tears and Merlin’s, enmingled – and stands, gently guiding Merlin to his feet, his hands covering Merlin's thin shoulders. Merlin rubs his face with fierce anguished hands, and Arthur steers him so he's sitting on the side of Arthur’s bed. Merlin’s shoulders shake with another sob.

‘Shh,’ Arthur says quietly, and sits next to him. He reaches and pulls Merlin close, and Merlin nestles and fits against the hollow of Arthur’s shoulder as though he was created to be there. Arthur smoothes the tangled dark hair away from his forehead, noticing, with sudden tender clarity, how very gentle and precious Merlin is.

Merlin takes a deep breath, and sniffs, wiping the raggedy sleeve of his nightshirt across his face and nose. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, very softly. ‘Oh – Arthur, what – what happens now?’

It’s exactly the question that’s bubbling in Arthur’s mind, and for a moment he wants to let go, move away and pace around the room and pull his own hair. But – but Merlin’s shoulder is resting against him, warm and delicate, and Arthur can feel the way he quivers, very slightly. As though his trust in Arthur is a fragile thing, easily broken; as though he  _expects_  to be pushed aside, yet again.

And Arthur can’t bear that, suddenly, because all that time – all those long horrible weeks of pushing Merlin away, he had been making Merlin suffer, too. And Arthur thinks hopelessly that he would give up everything – his crown, his privilege, his very life – to make sure that Merlin never knew suffering again.

The magnitude of it terrifies him. The realisation, the sudden epiphany, after those aching weeks of trying not to think, not to  _feel_. Arthur realises he’s shaking, and tries desperately to stop. He doesn’t have time for weakness now, he needs to be strong and comforting and gentle; but his breathing is uneven and he’s not so much holding Merlin, now, as clutching him urgently.

And then Merlin wipes his face once more, and shifts, twisting around and gently moving Arthur’s arm, and bringing a hand up to touch Arthur’s face, little shy searching touches over his jaw and cheek and chin, tender, comforting.

Arthur suddenly remembers that Merlin is not only gentle and precious and sweet – he is also  _strong_. Strong in the quiet core of him, with the kind of strength that faces down monsters and armies and bullying without a blink, a strength that bends but does not break.

‘Arthur,’ Merlin says gently; Arthur can hear the thickness of past weeping still tinging his voice. ‘Arthur.’ It’s all he says, but he’s looking into Arthur’s eyes; and his eyes are very clear and deep and blue.

Merlin rubs his fingers along Arthur’s jaw again, very softly, and smiles rather shyly at him. And Arthur can’t help it, there are tears on his face again, because it’s so long – so achingly long – since he’s seen Merlin’s smile.

And then Merlin’s putting his arms around Arthur’s neck, and shushing him, and rocking him as he clears his throat fiercely and tries to stop his tears against that soft hollow between Merlin’s collarbones. Merlin is maybe crying a little bit again himself, by the slight unsteadiness in his voice.

‘Arthur – oh, Arthur. It’s all right. Shh, shh.’

Arthur leans into him; the little dip of Merlin’s neck is as silky and lovely as he had thought it would be, like a soft haven to hide away from the hardness of the world.

Merlin laughs, a little bit wobbly. ‘Lach-ry-mose,’ he says, solemn and unexpected. ‘It’s what Gaius would call us. Lachrymose. Can’t stop crying.’

Arthur turns his head and snorts, wetly. ‘That’s a big word for you, Merlin.’

And in that moment everything feels  _right_  again. Just Arthur, and Merlin, teasing each other, laughing at nothingnesses, being _together_. Arthur suddenly wants to jump up, and take Merlin’s hand, and dance, or run across a field until they’re both breathless and then fling his arms around Merlin’s neck and hold him forever and a day. He laughs, and Merlin joins in, and it’s a bit choky at first but then turns into full, glorious laughter that they have to muffle in their hands and each other’s nightshirts, just in case it might be heard outside the door.

* * *

It’s better, after that. They curl up on the bed, and hold each other, and Arthur lays tiny soft kisses on the hollow between Merlin’s collarbones until Merlin pants and squirms. Then Merlin discovers that biting softly along Arthur’s jawline to his ear has the reciprocal effect. Arthur can’t help making little urgent noises deep in his throat, because the feel of Merlin’s lips on his skin is almost too much to bear.

He surges over, pinning Merlin’s arms down with his own, kissing him hard on those sweet wonderful lips, and Merlin's  _sipping_  at his mouth. Arthur thinks he might float away from the exquisite sensation of it all.

But then Merlin stops, and goes still and tense and worried. He pulls back a little, away from Arthur's lips, although his arms stay tight around Arthur's neck as though they belong there.

‘Arthur,’ he says softly, ‘Arthur, what  _does_  happen, now? Your father – if he knew. If  _he knew_...' He shivers, a little taut involuntary shiver, and Arthur holds him firmly, stroking long soothing strokes down his back.

'He won't know,' Arthur says. 'He won't. I promise he won't.'

Merlin suddenly looks tired and grey and drained dry. 'Another secret,' he says dully, and closes his eyes for a moment, as if in pain.

And then he's twisting sharply, breaking away from Arthur's hold and slipping off the bed. He walks over to the cold stone of the wall and braces himself there with his hands, his body closed and secret, tight as a bowstring.

'Merlin,' Arthur says. ‘Merlin.’ He follows him to the wall, standing behind him and waiting. After a moment he reaches out a careful hand to lightly touch Merlin's thin shoulder, and Merlin lets out a long weary shivering breath.

For a moment they seem frozen there in the waiting stillness, connected by the one warm spot of Arthur’s fingers on Merlin’s shoulder; and it feels like something on the brink of culmination – the slow curve of the spark that will hit the straw and kindle the fire.

And then Merlin turns, and straightens, and faces Arthur, chest to chest, scarce two hands-widths of space between them. He’s standing very straight and stiff, like a brave child bracing themselves for a beating; and Merlin should never, never look like that, Arthur thinks. He makes a movement to reach for him, but Merlin holds up both of his hands, quick and startle-splayed.

'No,' he says, very quiet. 'Arthur, wait.'

Arthur lifts his eyes to meet his, and waits; Merlin's face is tight and anguished.

'There's something I need to tell you,' he says desperately. 'Arthur – please – please don't hate me. You can – can punish me any way you want, but I can't bear it if you hate me, and I – I know I should have told you before, but I was  _scared_ , Arthur, please...'

'Merlin,' Arthur says, holding his eyes. 'Merlin, breathe. I – I don't think I could hate you, even if I wanted to. God knows I tried, these last weeks. Tell me what it is.' He reaches out, very slowly, as one would reach out to a small frightened animal, not quite touching Merlin, but waiting for him to come forward of his own will.

There’s a heartbeat of silence, waiting.

And then – then Merlin is sinking to his knees, his head bowed, his hands twining together, shaking; and he says chokily, 'Arthur –  _I have magic._ '

'What?' Arthur says blankly, after a moment. 'Wha – Merlin, what are you talking about? Of course you don't.'

'I  _do,'_  says Merlin, sounding small and distressed and terrified. 'I – I can't help it! I would never hurt anyone with it – unless – unless they were trying to hurt you, Arthur,  _please_ , it's n-not something you c-can change! Please...'

His voice trails away into nothingness, and he hunches his face down into the crook of his elbow, hiding it. His shoulders are quivering, and he looks tiny.

God help them all, he’s telling the truth. Arthur presses his hand to his forehead.

Merlin has magic. _His_ _Merlin_ has magic, has always had magic, has lied to Arthur for years. It feels as though Arthur’s thoughts are going very, very slowly, numb; turning it over in his mind. _Merlin has magic._

Merlin has magic, and has never told Arthur, never trusted Arthur with his secret, and a wave of sick hurt washes through Arthur’s body. And after the hurt, a wave of realisation.

It changes nothing.

Merlin has magic, and Arthur doesn’t hate him, despite the hurt, and yes, the anger as well. Merlin has magic – Merlin is scared and miserable – and Arthur finds himself on his own knees beside him, gathering Merlin gently against him.

Merlin gives a frightened jolt of surprise, his head jerking up, all wide eyes and parted lips. And then he’s grasping Arthur tightly, his head pressed hard into Arthur’s shoulder; Arthur can feel Merlin’s heart thudding hard and fast, as though he’s been running.

Arthur strokes his hair and back and arms with little cherishing touches. There are no tears; they have spent them already. But Merlin’s saying something, over and over and over, into Arthur’s shoulder, and Arthur strains to make out the words.

‘ _I’m sorry – I’m sorry – Arthur – I’m sorry…’_

And Arthur pulls Merlin’s head up to see his face, and touches his cheek very, very gently, as one would touch a precious thing of great beauty and value.

‘I’m sorry too,’ he says simply. ‘Let’s forgive each other.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song choice: 'Silver Inches' instrumental by Enya, because it's beautiful and reassuring. I love Enya. :)


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